Read Online A Quiver Full of Arrows by Jeffrey Archer - Free Book Online Page A

find Colonel Usman standing to
attention, just as he had done in the days before the coup. He held a note in
his hand.
    Eduardo tore open the envelope to find an
invitation to lunch that day with the new Head of State, General Obasanjo.
    “Please convey my apologies to your
President,” said Eduardo, “and be kind enough to explain that I have pressing
commitments to attend to in my own country.”
    The colonel retired reluctantly.
    Eduardo dressed in the suit, shirt and tie
he had worn on his first day in Nigeria and took the lift downstairs to the
lobby where he joined Manuel who was once more wearing jeans and a tee-shirt.
The two chairmen left the hotel and climbed into the back of the leading
Mercedes and the motorcade of six began its journey to the airport.
    The colonel, who now sat in front with the
driver, did not venture to speak to either of the distinguished Brazilians for
the entire journey. The two men, he would be able to tell the new President
later, seemed to be preoccupied with a discussion on an Amazon road project and
how the responsibility should be divided between their two companies.
    Customs were bypassed as neither man had
anything they wanted to take out of the country other than themselves, and the
fleet of cars came to a halt at the side of Eduardo’s blue and silver 707. The
staff of both companies climbed aboard the rear section of the aircraft, also engrossed
in discussion on the Amazon road project.
    A corporal jumped out ofthe lead car and
opened the back door, to allow the two chairmen to walk straight up the steps
and board the front section of the aircraft.
    As Eduardo stepped out of the Mercedes, the
Nigerian driver saluted smartly. “Goodbye, sir,” he said, revealing the large
set of white teeth once again.
    Eduardo said nothing.
    “I hope,” said the corporal politely, “you
made very big deal while you were in Nigeria.”

The First Miracle
    T omorrow it would be I A.D., but nobody had told
him. If anyone had, he wouldn’t have understood because he thought that it was
the forty-third year in the reign of the Emperor, and in any case, he had other
things on his mind. His mother was still cross with him and he had to admit that
he’d been naughty that day, even by the standards of a normal thirteen-year-old.
He hadn’t meant to drop the pitcher when she had sent him to the well for
water. He tried to explain to his mother that it wasn’t his fault that he had tripped
over a stone; and that at least was true. What he hadn’t told her was that he was
chasing a stray dog at the time. And then there was that pomegranate; how was
he meant to know that it was the last one, and that his father had taken a
liking to them?
    The boy was now dreading his father’s return
and the possibility that he might be given another thrashing. He could still
remember the last one when he hadn’t been able to sit down for two days without
feeling the pain, and the thin red scars didn’t completely disappear for over three
weeks.
    He sat on the window ledge in a shaded corner
of his room trying to think of some way he could redeem himself in his mother’s
eyes, now that she had thrown him out of the kitchen. Go outside and play, she
had insisted, after he had spilt some cooking oil on his tunic. But that wasn’t
much fun as he was only allowed to play by himself. His father had forbidden
him to mix with the local boys.
    How he hated this country; if only he were
back home with his friends, there would be so much to do. Still, only another
three weeks and he could... The door swung open and his mother came into the
room. She was dressed in the thin black garments so favoured by locals: they
kept her cool, she had explained to the boy’s father. He had grunted his disapproval
so she always changed back into imperial dress before he returned in the
evening.
    “Ah, there you are,” she said, addressing
the crouched figure of her son.
    “Yes, Mother.”
    “Daydreaming as usual. Well, wake up